


Made of Lies

by Dhdhhdgsgs



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Affairs, Cheating, Closeted Character, FACE Family, M/M, Marriage, Pining, Secret Relationship, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhdhhdgsgs/pseuds/Dhdhhdgsgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland is (not so happily) married to Alice, the accidental mother of his child.  After 8 years of marriage, the family of three moves to a small town.  Here, Arthur meets Francis Bonnefoy, and is forced to face his closeted homosexuality.  Francis never seems to leave, as he has made friends with Arthur's wife, and their two sons are quite close.  Arthur puts up a façade, telling Alice how much he hates the man, trying to avoid any further self doubt.  But, who can escape themselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. un

“Are you scared?” Alice whispers.

Arthur blinks himself awake, to find his wife’s eyes trained on him. Her hair spills out over her pillow, face traced in the moonlight that seeps through a nearby window.

“A bit, yeah.” Says Arthur, watching her. 

She leans in, slowly, and presses her mouth to his. Her hands drift to his neck, and her jaw loosens, allowing her tongue to snake into Arthur’s mouth. He knows what she wants, and pushes her away, before turning around. The covers rustle as he situates himself.

“‘Night, dear.”

She’s silent, for a moment, before letting out a hopeful, “I love you.”

Arthur pretends to be asleep.

 

Arthur tells himself every day. When he wakes up and sees Alice lying there, face pressed against her pillow. He forces himself to remember.

I love my wife.

But, a memory doesn’t save a marriage. Especially an untrue one.

 

I love my son.

It’s not a memory, it’s the only truth in Arthur’s life.

“You excited for school, chap?” Arthur asks, grinning as he watches Alfred eagerly eat his breakfast.

“Yeah, totally!” 

He looks to his wife, who sits across the table, peering down at her book, with a mug of coffee in her free hand. Her hair is tied up messily, her glasses perched on the bridge of her thin nose. She’s lost in the pages, it seems. Arthur looks back to his son and ruffles his hair.

“Finish your breakfast and I’ll walk you to your bus stop,” 

“It’s ok, dad. You don’t have to walk me.” Alfred answers around a mouthful of cereal. 

Arthur stares down at him, taken aback, “But I always walk you out to the bus on the first day of school.”

He takes his bowl and stands, padding over to the sink, “I’m not a little kid anymore.”

Arthur looks across the table, to find Alice smirking at him. His eyes flit back to his son, astonished. “Alright then.” 

Alfred waves them both goodbye, and heads toward the door with one strap of his backpack around his shoulder.

 

“Can you believe that?” Arthur asks, after he leaves.

“He’s growing up,” Says Alice, standing. She pulls on her hair, tightening her ponytail, before planting herself on his lap. 

Arthur hesitantly places his hands over her narrow waist. Her lips hover over his, arms secured around his neck. 

“We’ve done a job, Artie.” She kisses him, gently. Arthur pulls away, quickly, after a few seconds. She furrows her eyebrows, running a thumb down Arthur’s ear. She leans back in, and kisses him, again. 

“I love you.” Alice prompts.

Arthur averts his eyes, watching the faucet drip methodically, “I love you, too.”

Alice’s hand finds his jaw, and pulls him to face her. She stares at him, under long eyelashes, saying nothing. Arthur goes to push her off, but he’s cut off by her kissing him, once again. She curls her fingers into his hair, eyes squeezed shut. Arthur’s are wide open.

 

“It’s been a while,” Says Alice, suddenly. She’s lying closely next to Arthur, sheets pooling around her waist, exposing her bare chest, with her arms above her head. 

Arthur lays on his back, hands folded over his chest, staring up at the ceiling, “Yeah.”  
Alice is quiet, like she’s thinking of something to say next. She never does. Arthur doesn't turn to kiss her or touch her or even look at her. He just listens to the dripping of that damn faucet, eyes trained on the ceiling fan.

“I’m going out,” He declares suddenly, pushing back the sheets, and gathering his clothes. He hears Alice sit up.

“It’s only Twelve!” She protests.

Arthur pulls on his pants, “And I’ll be back by one.” He button's them.

"At least gimme a kiss before you go.”

Arthur shoulders his jacket on and complies. Just as she reaches up to caress his face, he breaks away and heads for the door.

 

When Arthur gets home, his wife is standing at the stove, with her hands on her waist, and one eyebrow cocked. Arthur discards his jacket and drapes it over a chair. 

“I thought you’d be home by one.” She says.

Arthur runs a hand over his face, pulling out the chair and sitting down, “Sorry, I got held up.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically, but says nothing. Arthur peers over to the paper Alfred’s scribbling away at.

“What'cha workin on?” 

 

After Alfred ambles up the stairs and tucks himself into his bed, Alice goes at it.

“I can’t believe you were out so late!” 

“I was back by four!”.

“Three hours after you said you would be!” She argues, gesturing wildly “God, I swear, Arthur, sometimes I think you don’t even wanna be with me!”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Arthur demands.

“You never touch me, you never kiss me,” She lowers her voice, “Hell, you don’t even say you love me, anymore.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but never finds the words. Tears build in Alice’s eyes, eyebrows knitted and lips pursed. 

“You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

 

The next morning, they eat breakfast in silence. Alice reads her book and drinks her coffee, cheeks flushed and eyes swollen, like she’d been crying. Arthur gives Arthur a kiss on the cheek, and sends him out the door. When he turns around, Alice is gone. His shoulders sag and he lets out a deep sigh, before grabbing his coat and heading out. 

 

“You look like you could use a friend,” Interrupts a voice, heavy with a french accent. Arthur turns to find himself faced with a handsome man. His deep blonde hair curls to his stubble dotted jaw. His eyes are blue like the sky, shockingly so. He raises an eyebrow.

“More like a drink.” Arthur snorts. The man laughs, and sits down.

“Let me buy you one, then.” He motions for the bartender, “I’m Francis.”

 

Francis is wonderfully male, flat chested and deep voiced and rough with facial hair. Arthur drinks it in like he’s addicted. Maybe he is. 

He kisses him like he’s never kissed his wife. He fucks him like he's never fucked his wife. He never wants it to stop. 

 

Arthur lays, naked, on top of Francis's bed. Francis himself is sitting against the headboard, smoking. He's got his hair tied up messily, a few curls escaping in the front. Smoke coils around the room. Arthur watches it twist elegantly.

"As much as I love having you here, my son is getting home from school soon." Francis says around his cigarette.

"You have son?"

Francis looks to him, eyebrows raised, "Oui. He's in the first grade

"So is mine." Arthur says, pushing himself up. 

Francis smirks, "You should probably get going, then." 

When done dressing, Francis grabs him around the waist and kisses him deeply. Arthur doesn't pull away like he would with his wife.

"Au Revoir" Francis whispers hotly against his lips.

 

"I was starting to get worried." Says Alice as Arthur walked through the door. She's on the couch, reading.

He clears his throat, and sheds his jacket. Francis was kind enough to not leave any hickeys, but the smell of sex still lingers on his clothes.

"Sorry," He says," I'm gonna go heat up some food."

"Let me." Interrupts Alice, "We can talk."

 

She sits down, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

An image of Francis doing the same flashes through Arthur's head. He blinks it away, and picks up his mug of tea.

"Listen," Alice starts, "I'm sorry I overreacted."

Arthur sighs, and sets the mug back down, "You don't have to apologize, dear. I'm sorry."

Alice smiles, and adjusts her glasses. She looks beautiful, when she smiles. So he says so.

Her smile broadens. And, even if he doesn't love her the way she loves him, he's lucky to have her. He doesn't say that.

She stands, "I'll get dinner ready."

 

When Alfred gets home, he's eager to show Arthur his homework, as he works on it at the kitchen table. And, Arthur's eager to help, watching his son in fondness. He's reminded why he's stayed with Alice all those years. For him.

 

Later, as he lays out a blanket on the couch, Alice comes downstairs clad in pajamas.

"Artie, you know you can sleep in bed tonight?" She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, eyebrows drawing a crease down the center of her forehead.

"Uh, actually, sleeping out here feels better on my neck, you know?" He scratches the back of his head.

She looks at him hesitantly, "Alright, then." And heads upstairs.

 

The next day progresses normally. Alfred finishes the homework he didn't get to the night before in between bites of cereal, before rushing to the bus stop. Alice reads quietly, and Arthur heads to his bar, once again.

He hardly ever drinks more than a beer. He's 

never even gotten drunk there. Arthur doesn't go daily because he's an alcoholic, he goes to escape.

That day, Arthur doesn't drink at all. He just sits, and waits. Nothing happens.

Normality grinds to an immediate halt when he opens the front door, and sees a familiar face sitting next to his wife at the coffee table, drinking tea.

"Artie, this is Francis. His son is in Alfred's grade."


	2. deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice and Francis grow closer, and Arthur has to deal with it.

Arthur took off his jacket, slowly, eyes trained on Francis. He sat with his legs crossed elegantly, elbows poised on his knees. His hair was tied back neatly with oh god, is that a ribbon?  
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He said, one finely groomed eyebrow cocked.  
“Right.” Arthur answered stiffly, clearing his throat. Francis took a sip of tea, eyes never leaving his.  
Alice smiled, “Why don’t you join us, dear?”  
Arthur took a breath. Alice’s cheeks dimpled, eyebrows raised, awaiting a res\ponse.  
“I-I’m rather tired.”  
Her shoulders slouched as she let out a rather defeated, “Oh, alright.”  
Arthur pressed his lips together in a smile, and strided past the couch.  
“Excuse me, Arthur?” Arre-terre, he said it like. French bastard. “Could you show me the bathroom?”  
And, of course he couldn’t just refuse, because that would be impolite and upset his wife. “Course.” He answered through gritted teeth.  
Francis smiled, set down his mug, and whispered, “Be back in a jiff, chérie,” To his wife.

 

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Arthur demanded, backing Francis into a wall. Francis held his hands out in front of his chest in defense.  
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m having tea with your wife. Our sons have made friends, it seems.” A lock of hair escaped Francis’ ribbon.  
“Of fucking course they have!”  
“Don’t be upset at me! How was I supposed to know you were married? To a woman?’  
Arthur scowled, “You’d better get going, Alice’ll get worried.”  
Francis starts down the hall, before turning to say, “She’s a wonderful woman, you know. Deserves a lot better than you.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
Francis mocked thinking, embellished with rubbing his chin and staring into the beyond. “Hm, I don’t know, one who loves her?”  
Arthur goes to argue back, but never finds the words. The truth that hides behind Francis’ statement burns.  
Francis lowers his voice, “She thinks she’s done something wrong, Arthur.”

 

Long after Francis goes downstairs, Arthur still stands pressed against the wall, unexplainably winded.

 

That’s not the last time Arthur sees Francis. Alfred is quite fond of his boy, Matt. He’s overjoyed to have made a friend, and Arthur’s not about to take to that away from him.  
He could say the same for Alice, who absolutely adores Francis himself.  
They often have tea (or wine) while the children play and Arthur pretends not to stare whenever Francis smiles. Alice brightens whenever he's around, and Arthur is reminded friends aren’t only important for children.

 

The phone rings. Arthur ignores it until Alfred shoots him an annoyed glare. “Hello?”  
“Ah, Arthur, is Alice there?” An unmistakable french accent filters through the phone’s speakers.  
“I’m afraid not, no.”  
Francis hums, “Well, I was going to ask her if she wanted to come over. I’ve just made macarons. But, would you like to instead? The children could do their homework together, no?”  
Just as Arthur goes to decline, Alfred begins shoving his binder in his bag, seeming to have overheard.  
“Fine.” Arthur sighs, not wanting to upset his son. “We’ll be over in a bit.”

 

Alfred pushes the door open without knocking. Arthur starts to scold him, but is interrupted by Francis.  
“Salut, Alfred,” He greets, bending down to make eye level with him, “Mathieu is in his room.”  
Alfred smiles widely, and gives a quick, “Thank you!” rushing to the stairs.  
Arthur stands by the door, with his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes flicking around the room. It’s simple but elegant, as expected of Francis. The walls are decorated with silver framed photographs of younger Mathieu and who Arthur assumed were Francis’s friends. Against the wall stands a thin t.v, across from an angular couch. Magazines lay in fan across the coffee table, situated between the two. The lush carpet fades into tile where the kitchen begins. A refrigerator, sleek and tall, stands next to a stove in the gap between countertops.  
“Come in, then.”

 

Francis’ macarons were indeed, absolutely delicious. Arthur had to stop himself from stuffing them all down his throat. Francis doesn’t seem to have the same problem, as it took him at least three minutes to finish one.  
“May I ask what happened to Mathieu’s mother?” Arthur asked hesitantly.  
Francis’ eyebrows raised for a moment, as he leant over to set down his mug of coffee. “We dated for a second in college.” He started, “I got her pregnant, and she wanted to get an abortion. So I told her I’d raise the baby, all she had to do was give birth. She took off soon after he was born.”  
Arthur took a breath, “Oh. I’m sorry.”  
Francis shrugs, tilting his head, "Eh, I only knew her for a month or two. Never even got the chance to love her. But Mathieu," He paused, "I've loved him since he was born."  
Arthur nodded, his eyes lingering on Francis for a moment to long. They settled on his hands, where they rested in his lap.  
"And why did you marry Alice, then?"  
"Because I love her!"  
Francis looked at him skeptically.  
"...I had called up my parents the night before." Arthur cleared his throat, "And um, told them I was gay." He raised his eyes to meet Francis', "They told me to find a woman, or to never talk to them again. So I went to this party, and met Alice. I figured if I fucked a woman and liked it, I'd change my mind. Then she got pregnant. Couldn't've just abandoned her."  
"No, but you could've told the truth."  
"It's too late for that, innit?"  
Francis knitted his eyebrows, eyes shining with sympathy. He took a deep, dramatic breath, and took a sip of coffee,  
"And why'd you have a girlfriend then?"  
"Because I'm not gay," He answered, "I feel, to only love one gender is missing out on half the world's treasures."  
Arthur snorted, suddenly interested in the dirt under his fingernails. Francis was silent  
"You know, it's not to late." He finally said, "You could tell her."  
Arthur's head jerked up, suddenly, "And risk losing custody of my son?"  
"What kind of lesson are you teaching him, being married to Alice? To lie?"  
"He doesn't need to know!"  
Francis nodded, and mumbles under his breath, "Right."

When he and Alfred get home, Arthur tells his wife she'd be better off if Francis wasn't her friend. That he's a sneaky bastard who wants nothing but to ruin them. She doesn't listen.

Arthur goes to pick of Alfred from Matt’s on a sunday, after he’d spent the night. Francis is unusually dishevelled, at 9 in the morning. His hair is pulled up, curls poking out and falling across his neck. His stubble is scruffier and coming in along his lip. Also, there’s the no shirt thing. Francis had always been attractive, but Arthur feels his cheeks redden and his hands curl into fists.  
“Ah, salut,” Francis greets, voice rough. His fingers are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.  
“Yes, good morning.” Arthur cleared his throat, “Is Alfred ready?”  
“They’re just waking up. C’mon, I’m making breakfast.” Francis begins toward the kitchen. Arthur convinces himself he needs to convince himself to follow.

Francis lets his hair down, to tie it back up, neater. His eyelashes flutter and his tongue pokes over his lips. Arthur forces himself not to look, because looking at Alice never made his chest ache like this does. It doesn’t go away, however. As Francis forgets to be charming and begins to snort when he laughs and to chew on his fingernails and smile lopsidedly, Arthur hurts more and more. He makes crepes without his shirt and jokes with Arthur like an old friend. It feels like Arthur’s throat closes up. 

Alfred and Mathieu clamber down the stairs just as Francis sets out plates. Alfred rushes to hug Arthur, hair in disarray and glasses hanging too far down his nose. Mathieu wishes Arthur a good morning, in his quiet accented voice. He looks a bit like Francis, but Arthur assumes he takes more after his mother. He’s got the gentle wave of blonde hair, and the deep blue eyes, but his nose is rounder and his jaw softer and his eyebrows thicker.  
It almost feels like a family, as they all sit around the table together. Maybe that's what scares Arthur the most.


	3. trois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Francis knows Arthur's secret, he's found somewhere he doesn't have to hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> afonso is portugal, belle is belgium. thanks everyone for your kudos ily

Francis invites them to a dinner party. He says there’s another couple with their kid attending. Arthur doesn’t even know their names, but Alice is elated. They arrive early, so Francis makes them sit at the island while he finishes dinner. Alfred goes to play with Mathieu.  
Francis’ hair is tied back, like it always is when he’s cooking, with a black hair tie instead of a shimmering ribbon. He’s got on a deep purple shirt, tucked into a pair of dark jeans that cling to the curve of his backside perfectly, with the first few buttons undone so Arthur can see the curve of his collarbones. Alice is pretty, beautiful even, with her long straight hair and big green eyes and rosy cheeks and delicate features. But Francis is handsome. Even with his feminine hair, he’s still got those narrow eyes and harsh cheekbones and his broad shoulders and the smearing of facial hair along his chin.  
There’s a painting of a winding road with the eiffel tower stretching into the sky hanging over Francis’s sink.  
“That’s beautiful,” Alice points to it, “Who painted it?”  
Francis presses his finger to the name painted in the corner, “Bonnefoy” He says, “Me. I was an art student before Mathieu was born.”  
Alice adjusts her glasses, “Oh! That’s wonderful.”  
“I was a creative writing major,” Arthur says, “In college. We were all awfully angsty, you know. I wore eyeliner.”  
Francis turns around to face him, charming grin dancing across his face, “Really? You with the sweater vest?”  
Alice giggles, covering her lips.  
“If you look closely you can see all my closed up piercings.”  
Francis gasps, mouth agape and eyebrows raised, before laughter bubbles up in his throat. His eyes crinkle up as he makes a fist over his mouth and Arthur wishes he would put it down so he can see his smile.  
“I have pictures, you know.” Alice says. Arthur sees her open Facebook on her phone, scrolling down his timeline.  
Francis pushes back his hair and takes a breath, “Dieu dans le ciel, please show me.” He strides over, and plants himself in the space between Arthur and Alice’s chairs. He leans against the island, peering down at Alice’s phone. His leg brushes Arthur’s and he can see each breath he takes through the rise and fall of his shoulderblades.  
They both begin to laugh, and Arthur places his hand over Francis’ back in order to look over his shoulder. It’s subconscious, natural, he doesn’t even think about it. But then he can feel the heat of Francis’ skin through his shirt and the picture doesn’t matter anymore.  
It’s of him, of course. From when his hair was dyed green, and he was with Afonso. He’s there, Arthur’s arm around him as they both laugh. They’re at some kind of party, both with red solo cups in hand.  
Arthur finds himself aching with nostalgia, remembering how they kissed that night, celebrating the fact Arthur decided to come out to his parents.  
“Your hair!” Francis interrupts, voice filled with laughter. “And that man,” He grunts, “Who is that?”  
Arthur takes a breath shakily, “Um, that’s Afonso, he was my friend.”  
Francis turns his head, slightly, and looks Arthur straight in the eye. Arthur forces himself to look away, because he can tell Francis knows. Alice swipes and it’s just him, Afonso. He’s smiling, slightly, eyes gleaming. For once, his hair is down, dark chocolate curls spilling around his tanned shoulders. Because he’s shirtless.  
“Arthur, are you still in contact with him?” Francis asks.  
“No, not quite.” Arthur coughs, blinking hard.  
“A shame,” Francis sighs dramatically,  
Alice swipes.

The other couple shows up a few minutes later. Francis kisses their cheeks, the man with curly dark hair and tanned skin, wearing the brightest smile Arthur’s ever seen and his wife blonde with her hair tied back with a ribbon and a small boy in her arms.  
They all chat and eat dinner except for Arthur, who watches silently. Antonio is a vibrant man and Belle is a sweetheart, and Arthur can tell Francis adores both of them.  
Francis kisses Antonio goodbye on the mouth and Belle on the cheeks. He goes for Lovino’s forehead but he doesn’t let him, burying his head in Belle’s chest. Francis and Antonio laugh and then they hug again. 

“Pleeeeease! Please please please!” Alfred links his fingers and gets down on his knees. Alice laughs.  
“If Francis says yes--”  
“Please Francis!” Alfred shuffles around so he’s facing him,  
“Of course,” Francis reaches down to ruffle Alfred’s hair.

The hinges creak as Arthur pushes the door open to his son’s room. He goes to his dresser, shuffling through Alfred’s balled up T-shirts. Then, closes his fist around the one with the Captain America emblem on the front. Knots form in the back of his throat and tears build up in the corners of his eyes as an image of Afonso settles in his mind.  
Before they went to bed, he used to sit propped against the headboard with his hair tied up loosely, maybe even a cloth headband around his forehead. He’d have a book between his knees, reading so intently his eyebrows would be furrowed and his eyes narrowed. Completely entrenched.  
Arthur stuffs the shirt in Alfred’s bag.

Francis shouts to come in when Arthur knocks on the door. He drops Alfred’s bag next to him on the couch, causing him to look up from his phone. His hair is tucked behind his ears and he’s clad in a large sweatshirt, large words spread across the chest, written in french.  
“Here are his clothes,”  
Francis locks his phone and pockets it, “Sit.”  
Arthur sighs, searching for a way to decline, before giving it up and complying. He rests his head against the back of Francis’ couch.  
“Why’d you separate?” Francis asks.  
Arthur turns his head to look at him, “Who, me and Afonso?”  
Francis nods.  
“Well, um.” He shakes his head, “We’d been together for awhile, a year. Almost more. And he convinced me to come out to my parents. I was already out to my friends, and he said it’d be the final step to finding my happiness. So I did.”  
Francis sighs.  
“I told him I couldn’t be with him anymore, because I was going to get better. I told him I’d forget all about loving him and it was his fault I was gay.” Arthur scoffs, “I was such an idiot.”  
“No--”  
“I had a ring. I thought my parents would be ok with it all and then I was going to...to fucking propose.”  
“Oh, Arthur.” Francis rests his hand over Arthur’s shoulder, only for him to shrug it away.  
“It’s fine. It’s over. Everything’s over.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose.  
“It doesn’t have to be,”  
“What am I supposed to do, message him on facebook?” Arthur jerks his head up, staring Francis in the eye.  
“Tell Alice, meet someone new, a man. Love again.”  
“And risk losing my son?” Arthur demands, “No man is worth that.”  
Francis heaves a sigh, and pushes back his hair, “I’ll bring Alfred his things.”

That night Arthur digs into the bottom of his underwear drawer and finds the little satin box he keeps there, and flips it open. A thick, silver band glints between the cushion.  
“What’s that?”  
Arthur shuts it, and spins around, “Nothing, dear.”

Arthur doesn’t know if Alice is pretending not to know about the ring or if she really doesn’t. She never says anything, but sometimes he finds her staring at hers. Then she’ll look away and smile at him.  
Arthur had only known Alice a few weeks when he bought her ring. He’d taken her out a few times, after she called him about the baby. The fifth date, he’d hidden it in his pocket and when he asked everybody cheered. It had only costed him 35 pounds, unlike Afonso’s which took months to save up for. And for a second, he wanted to scream at every smiling face that clapped unknowingly for him. He wanted to scream at them that Alice shouldn’t be sitting across the table from him, sliding a ring down her finger. That it should be Afonso. That he didn’t love her, he barely knew her.  
Alice likes to recount that day, saying even though she hadn’t gotten the chance to know him, she knew she loved him. Because he had given everything up for her, for their unborn baby. She said no boy does that, only a man. “A man she couldn’t help but love.”  
What a load of bullshit.

“Arthur, love...I don’t want to be a snoop, but why do you have that ring in your dresser?” Alice hesitantly tucked her hair behind her ears. Well then, she was pretending.  
Arthur is silent, because there are no excuses waiting in the back of his mind. He never thought she’d figure out. But there she was, waiting.  
“Oh...um, it belonged to a friend of mine, who, um, died.” Arthur lied, pressing his lips together tightly.  
Alice’s mouth made an o, eyebrows lifting, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Alice is at work on sunday, leaving Arthur to pick Alfred up from Francis’. When he pulls up, he doesn’t expect to see him sitting out on his porch, smoking.  
His hair is down, pieces of blond curling over his eyes. Smoke coils in the air, fumes sticking to the inside of Arthur’s mouth when he breathes it in.  
“Haven't seen you smoke since the day we met” Arthur hovers over him.  
Francis extends his arm, offering the cigarette. Arthur reaches out hesitantly, before squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger and taking a long drawl.  
Francis pulls a fresh one from his pack, flicking his lighter until it burns to life.  
“It’s been awhile…” Arthur blows rings in the smoke, “I quit when Alice got pregnant. ”  
“I..don’t do it often,” Francis motions for Arthur to sit, “Sometimes it’s a treat...when I get stressed.”  
Arthur flicks away the ashes. Some land on his corduroys and he brushes them away, “You’re stressed?”  
“You’re not the easiest to deal with.”  
Arthur scoffs, shaking his head slightly with his eyebrows lifted, “So sorry to spike your addiction.”  
“I miss it,” Francis takes a breath, “More than I’d like to admit.”  
“Same here. I’ll tell you, somedays there’s nothing I want more than a fag.”  
Francis chuckles, “I bet.”  
Arthur tries not to laugh, but then it spills over his tongue and he’s practically doubled over. Francis seems to have forgotten to be charming again, because he snorts and when Arthur glances at him through his tears and his smile is crooked. He thinks to himself that Francis is more beautiful when he doesn’t think about it. He thinks to himself about how badly he wants to kiss him.  
Francis breathes shakily, laughter caught in his throat. He smiles without his teeth, saying nothing. Arthur tries to look away, but sunlight paints strips of gold in his hair and creates flecks of light in his eyes while smoke dances before his face.  
Francis’ smile fades. He blinks a few times, as if to clear his vision. Sunlight catches between his blond eyelashes.  
“Oh, Arthur,” He reaches out, then his palm is pressed to Arthur’s cheek and his thumb hovers over his bottom lip, “What am I going to do with you?”

 

Alice gets home late. Bags weigh under her eyes and stray hairs hang in her face. She drops to the couch.  
“I’m exhausted,” She breaths. Arthur takes a long sip of tea, watching her throw her head over the couch. She closes her eyes and holds her hand over them.  
“Work was bad, then?”  
“No, no. It was fine, I’m just...tired.” She started to undo her hair, letting it fall off the back of the couch in thick strands. Arthur wishes he wanted to go sit next to her and kiss her, because it would make her feel better. But he can’t bring himself to move, situated in his armchair.  
“And you and Alfred got supper?” She asked, peeking through her hands.  
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it.”  
She propped herself up, arching her back, “Well, love, I’m off to bed.” On her way towards the stairs, she stopped before Arthur. He looked up at her, cradling his steaming mug of tea. She smiled softly, and leant down to kiss him on the cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin, hair tickling his neck, “I love you.”  
“I...love you, too.” Arthur whispered, eyes caught in the mess of blonde dancing before him. 

Now that Alice was working again, Alfred had to spend more time at Mathieu’s. Francis was glad to babysit, telling them Alfred was a delight. He’d have dinner prepared whenever Arthur came to pick his son up.  
“Please, stay.” Francis would always say, even though Arthur always was.  
He started telling Alice she didn’t need to prepare dinner for them, that Arthur would manage it himself. He’d always been a terrible cook, never allowing him to make dinner himself. Alice had looked at him skeptically before agreeing.  
Not having food in the house was a perfect excuse.

Alice was cooking when there was a knock on the door. She had insisted on hosting dinner, seeing as they always ate at Francis’ house. He had given her that perfect smile and agreed.  
“Come in, then.” Arthur propped open the door.  
“Merci,” Francis pushed past him, setting down the bottle of wine he was cradling on the coffee table. Mathieu stood at his heels. He stared up at Arthur through pale eyelashes, fists clenched into Francis’ jeans.  
Alice smiled from where she stood over the stove, and shouted for Alfred. He practically flew down the stairs, grabbed Mathieu’s hand, and pulled him back up. Francis laughed as they raced up the stairs, fingers interlocked.  
“He’s good for Mathieu.” He says, “He’s never had a friend, like this. A best friend.”  
Alice smiles, “Matt is a good boy. Alfred’s lucky to have him.”  
Francis smiles, and runs a hand through his hair. Some curls catch in his fingers. Arthur takes his place back at the couch.  
“Mathieu is so...shy, it’s hard for him.” Francis elaborates, sitting down, too close to Arthur. He throws his arm over the back of the couch, almost like it’s around his shoulders. And, that sucks, because now Arthur wants to lean his head on his chest.  
Instead, he watches his profile. A straight nose, blue eyes decorated with blond eyelashes, the curve of his chin and his narrow neck and those thick pink lips. His hand inches closer until it rests over Arthur’s shoulder. His smell is intoxicating, like expensive cologne. Arthur usually thinks that’s unattractive but he drinks it in like an addict.  
Alice summons them to the table, setting out plates full of steaming food. Francis lays his napkin over his thigh and brushes back his hair.  
“This looks magnifique.” He smiles, and Alice smiles back.  
Francis eats slowly, periodically lifting his napkin to wipe his perfectly clean mouth. He and Alice chat absentmindedly, him with his hands and her behind her mug of tea. Arthur is silent.  
Alice pours the wine Francis brought as he sits on the couch. She pulls her hair over her shoulder as she joins him with her own glass.  
“I’m going to bed,” Arthur says.  
Alice looks back at him, still giggling from whatever Francis, “Oh, you’re sleeping in bed tonight?”  
“Uh,”  
Francis eyes were caught in his.  
“Yes.”

Arthur sits propped against the headboard, thumbing through his book, trying to find his place. He can hear Alice and Francis’ voices, barely. Their words meld together and Arthur doesn’t know what they’re saying. But he knows whatever it is it’s about him.  
His fingers curl around the spine of his book, pages caught under his palms. He finds himself staring at the mirror across from his and Alice’s bed instead of actually reading.  
He sees himself, of course. Mousy hair that could probably use a trim frames his pale face. Thick eyebrows hang over vibrant green eyes. His cheekbones are thin and his jaw squared, dark circles lining his under eyes. Arthur tries to rip his eyes away but they linger until he hears the front door slam.  
Alice pushes the bedroom door open, and Arthur’s eyes flit to her.  
She busies herself at her dresser. Arthur forces himself to read until Alice interrupts him.  
“Arthur,” She says.  
“Yes?”  
Then, she starts to strip. She starts with letting down her hair, which Arthur’s always thought was beautiful. It falls, strands of blonde cascading around her thin shoulders. Then, she takes her shirt and pulls it over her head. Her ribs press against her skin as she stretches, stomach long and pale and thin. Arthur makes fists around the bedsheets. So this is what Francis told Alice to do? To try and seduce him?  
“Alice--wait,”  
She doesn’t listen, turning around as she unbuttons her pants. Her hips move rhythmically as she slides them to her ankles. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep shuddering breath. When he opens them, her fingers are at the clasp of her bra, and she’s dropping it to the floor.  
“Alice, you don’t have too--”  
“What if I want to?” She demands, spinning around. Her face is flushed, her eyebrows drawn together,  
Arthur is silent, she stands there for a moment, before continuing. He watches without a remark, until she crawls close to him on her hands and knees. He can feel her breath fan across his lips, as her eyes bore into his. She presses their mouths together, gently at first. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and her eyebrows scrunch together. Arthur watches, moving his mouth against hers. She lifts a hand to his jaw, but he keeps his in the bed sheets.  
She straightens herself, hovering over Arthur, “I love you.” She says, before leaning back down and whispering hotly into his ear, “I want you inside of me.”  
Arthur sighs, because it repeats back to him in Francis’ voice. When he first met him at that bar. Arthur had blushed widly as Francis took him by the hand, led him out, and filled his desires.  
He raises his hands to press them to Alice’s shoulders, to push her away. But then, he slides them to her neck and forces his eyes shut. It’s for her, right?  
She smiles against his mouth and lowers herself. Arthur tilts his head up, watching the ceiling.  
“Arthur…”  
“Yeah?”  
“...You’re not hard.”

 

Arthur bangs on Francis door at 11 o’clock in the morning. He hears footsteps, before the door creaks open. Francis’ hair is wet, and his T-shirt clings to his chest with water.  
“Yes?”  
“Come on,” Arthur says, shaking his box of cigarettes. Francis shuts the door behind him.

“You know, eventually it won’t just be when I’m stressed,” Francis declares as he takes a drawl. He lets out a deep breath, smoke escaping into the air.  
“You didn’t have to say yes,” Arthur answers quickly.  
Francis nods, eyes focused on the sky. He holds his bud between his fingers, letting the smoke linger.  
“What’d you tell Alice?”  
“You’re going to have to specify, chér.”  
“After I went up to bed, last night!”  
“Well, I told her that your neck probably did hurt, and she was just overreacting.” Francis said, “In different words.”  
“Really?” Arthur presses on, letting his cigarette hand from his lips, “Because she stripped for me when she came up.”  
Francis sputtered with laughter until he started coughing smoke. Arthur glared down at him, flicking ashes onto the porch swing.  
“Aw, she’s sweet.”  
“Then, when tried to...you know...she got upset because I was soft.”  
Francis laughter started up again, but stronger. He took shaky breaths before it spilled over his tongue again, tears building up in his eyes.  
“Fuck you!”  
Francis, through his giggles, rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, wet hair sticking to his neck.  
“Oh, Arthur,” Francis sighs, “What am I going to do with you?”


	4. quatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine is developed after Alfred decides to join baseball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and such. Sorry it's taken so long, writers block really hit me hard. ily

Alfred decides to play baseball. Tryouts are on a Friday, after school. He's got himself all hyped up, practicing out back with a rusty bat. Arthur watches from the kitchen window, as Alice throws the ball to him repeatedly.  
Her hair is gathered up in a bun on the crown of her head, pushed back with an elastic headband. She has her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and an old pair of Arthur's cargo shorts on.   
Both of them have their glasses off, sweat glistening on their foreheads.  
When they come in, Arthur situates his arm around Alice's shoulders and kisses her. Then, she leans her head on his chest with a smile spreading across her face.   
Even if he can't the way he should, he loves her. 

Arthur sits next to his wife on the bleachers as he watches Alfred prepare himself for tryouts. She sits so close their thighs are pressed together, with her hand capturing his. Her face is flushed from the heat and tiny hairs stick to her forehead with sweat.  
Then, Francis shows up.  
“Salut,” He smiles, hand spread over Mathieu’s shoulderblades, urging him forward.  
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demands.  
"Alfred asked me to come.” He seats himself on the other side of Arthur. "And Mathieu wanted to see how he did,” He laid his palm over his neck, “ Est -ce pas, mon chou?”  
“Oui-oui.” 

“Papa Francis!” Alfred came rushing up the bleachers, helmet crooked on his head, “Did I do good? Did I, did I?”   
“Incroyable! You were a star, chiot! Like a real American!”  
Arthur looks to his wife, eyebrows knitted deeply. Why had he asked Francis and not them?  
“Tell you what, poppet,” Arthur interrupts, “I’ll take you and Matt to ice cream, if you want.”  
Alfred’s eyes light up behind his glasses, “Really? Papa Francis, can he come?”  
“But of course,” Francis smiles.

“So, Matt, do you play any sports?” Arthur finds his eyes in the rearview mirror. He pushes up his glasses with the pad of his thumb.  
“Yes.” He says quietly, “I play hockey during the winter.”  
“Well, that’s impressive!”   
Mathieu blushes and smiles, eyes trained on his lap. He certainly doesn’t take after Francis personality wise. While his father is talkative and outspoken, Mathieu is shy, modest. A real sweet boy.  
“Mattie’s got a buncha’ ribbons ‘n stuff in his room!” Alfred interrupts.   
His blush darkens, and Arthur smiles to himself. He’s never been happier for Alfred to have a friend.

Alfred loves baseball. Francis comes to every game, like a parent would. Without even being asked. He cheers for Alfred in loud French and grips Arthur's hand whenever something exciting happens.   
Then, Arthur will take Alfred and Mathieu (and sometimes Francis) for ice cream. Alfred will grin and Mathieu thanks him quietly. They hold hands as they rush towards the counter, always.  
Francis will kiss both of Arthur's cheeks when he drops them off, hand hooked behind his ear. Arthur will blush and go back to his car. The next week, the cycle will repeat.

"Stay tonight," Francis says one weekend, "I'll make dinner and les enfants will watch a movie."   
"You say that like I want to spend time with you." “Maybe you do,”  
“You wish your froggy ass,”  
But, Alfred is clambering out of the car and rushing to the door so Arthur can’t say no. Right?

Francis cooks like he always does, Arthur watching him from the island while Alfred and Mathieu watch something on the T.V.  
Arthur watches Francis' thighs and ass through his khakis, chin propped on his palm. He moves elegantly, shaking hair out of his eyes and jutting his hips out. His shoulderblades flex under his t-shirt and Arthur wants nothing more than to fuck him into the countertops.  
To watch those golden eyelashes flutter against flushed cheeks and his wet tongue to peak over his red lips. To hear him gasp and curse in French and for his hands to be everywhere.  
"You alright, Arthur?"  
Arthur gulps, "Why wouldn’t I be?"  
Francis shakes his head and turns back around, hand poised on his hip.

 

Arthur sits across from Francis, next to Alfred. His son makes a fist around his fork as he stabs into his food wildy. Mathieu, on the other hand, eats slowly and politely after Francis cuts his chicken for him.   
Alfred chatters enough for the four of them, pushing awkward small talk out of the picture. He rambles about school and baseball and how he found a four leaf clover but it was actually just two regular clovers standing close together. Every few sentences he’ll go, “Right, Mattie?” And Mathieu will respond, “Yes, Al.”  
Francis chuckles and watches fondly, clear blue eyes shining.

“Dad,” Alfred tugs on Arthur’s shirt, “Daddy, we never finished our movie.”  
“Well, go on then.” Francis interrupts, “We’ll watch the rest with you.”  
Alfred cheers and takes Mathieu’s hand, pulling him along. Arthur sighs and situates himself on the couch, while the kids sit on the floor.

Arthur doesn’t pay to much attention to what’s happening, but every once and awhile Mathieu will turn around and say something in French and Francis will laugh.  
“W-what?” Alfred will go, “Hey, what’d you say? Mattie!”  
Then Mathieu will repeat himself, still in French. Alfred will get flustered and Francis will laugh and something settles in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. Here he was, without his wife, feeling more like a part of a family than he ever had.  
Sometime during this, he wakes up with his head against Francis’ shoulder. He smells deeply of cologne and spices and wine, his hair like some feminine shampoo. Arthur blinks the sleep out of his eyes, and fishes into his pocket for his phone.  
The time reads 1:37 across his screen neat white lettering. The brightness paints itself along Arthur’s face and burns his eyes. Text messages from Alice stream down his lock screen.  
He unlocks his phone and begins typing back a message, ‘Sorry,’ It reads, ‘Watching a movie with Al and Matt and fell asleep. Be home soon.’  
Francis’ breathing was steady, chest rising and falling rhythmically. His eyes danced beneath his eyelids, long eyelashes fluttering. Arthur removes himself from the couch, only for Francis’ body to fall to the side, arms trapped under his chest. He laughs softly, and reaches over to brush hair from Francis’ face, fingertips hesitantly skimming over his cheekbones. They linger there, for a moment, before Arthur tugs his hand away and holds it against his chest.  
He takes Mathieu, who curls into his side. His face is pressed to Arthur’s chest, the delicate curve of his cheek and button nose and rosebud lips contrasting against the darkness of Arthur’s T-shirt.   
“Que faites-vous?” Arthur turns to see Francis, now awake.  
“I don’t speak frog, but I’m taking him up to bed.” Arthur adjusted Mathieu so he sat easier on his hip.  
Francis lowered his head back to the couch cushion and closed his eyes, “Merci beaucoup, rosbif.”  
“Did you just call be roast beef?”  
Francis is asleep again. 

As Arthur sets Mathieu into his bed, he hears him whisper, “Je T'aime, papa.”   
His wheat colored curls spill across his pillow, arms at his sides, palms turned toward the ceiling. His cheeks are flushed and his lips spread, small body moving with each breath. Arthur ran his knuckles down Mathieu’s smooth cheek.  
“Oh, Matt.”

Francis had turned over by the time Arthur came back downstairs. One of his arms hung over the couch, as he slept on his back. Arthur scoffed as he took his sleeping son in his arms. He rested his palm over the back of Alfred’s head, other arm under his thighs. Alfred’s arms tucked against his chest, making fists into his shirt.  
“Bye, git.” Arthur whispered to Francis’ sleeping form.

When Arthur crawls into bed next to his wife, he’s met with her shoulder blades and spine. She seems to be asleep, breathing steadily and silently. He clicks off the lamp and tries to sleep.  
But, then he remembers how peaceful Francis was, how methodic. How he smelled, and how his breath tickled Arthur’s skin and his hair fanned over his neck. And Mathieu, who was so good to Alfred and kind and funny and Francis’ kid. Why did he have to be Francis’ kid and not some boring housewife’s? And why did Francis have to be so charming and handsome and with a smile like everything anyone could want?  
And why did Arthur have to be in love with him


	5. cinq

Summer fades into fall, bringing chilly mornings and windy afternoons. Alfred suddenly decides this means Christmas is just around the corner, asking how many days left until it comes every morning. Then, Arthur will tell him Halloween is closer and Alfred will ask how many days until that. 

Once, when Alfred is away at Mathieu's, Alice decides to make some elaborate dinner. She dresses herself up, too. She's wearing a simple dress with thin straps that show off her collarbone and falls to her knees. She kisses Arthur when she puts his food out before him. 

"I got this recipe from Francis," She says, cutting into her food, "Good, innit? Kind of annoying that he's a better cook than me."  
Arthur scoffs around his fork, "I wouldn't go that far."

Alice smiles brightly at that, dimples creasing her cheeks and lips pressed together tightly, "Thanks, love."

 

Arthur cleans up the dishes up as Alice goes to put on a movie. He stands at the sink, water running over dirty dishes. Behind the window, the sky is dark, moon surrounding itself in a globe of light, grey clouds spreading across the expanse of blank.

"You coming?"

They sit with Arthur's arm around Alice and Alice's head on Arthur's chest. Her hair smells like their two in one shampoo and conditioner. It's nothing magnificent, just familiar. Just Alice.  
Arthur runs a hand through her hair, fingers catching in the soft tangles. She breaths deeply.

Then a character bumps into someone in the dark, and she goes, "Remember in college when we first got engaged and your brothers came to congratulate us? But, they didn't tell us and they came in the middle of the night?" 

"And I hit Scott with a bat because I thought they were burglars?" 

Alice starts to giggle, causing Arthur to as well. They submerge themselves in laughter, folded over. The sound of the T.V disappears and it's nothing but them, laughing like old friends.

And, Arthur wishes that they were. That he had just told Alice the truth when she got pregnant, that they'd just been close friends. That maybe, somehow, they could’ve raised Alfred together, without the marriage. And Alice could’ve gotten a nice boyfriend and Arthur could’ve won back Afonso. His heart aches, because it's not just like he's married to this terrible woman who he doesn't love. He's married to a fantastic woman, who he loves dearly. Just not the way he should.

He firmly kisses the side of her head, and burrows his head in her hair, tears building in the corners of his eyes and knots forming in the back of his throat, "I'm sorry."

Her laughter fades, hand coming up to rest on Arthur's arm, "What for?"

"Everything." 

 

"Alice is worried about you,” Francis says, stirring his coffee. 

“And why’s that?” 

“Apparently,” Francis takes a long sip, “You had some sort of episode the other night.” He eyes Arthur suspiciously. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Arthur sighs, crossing his legs. Francis scoffs, lips pressed into a thin smile. 

“I just…” Arthur begins, “Realized how badly I’ve screwed her over.”

“By doing what?”

“Lying.”

Francis purses his lips and lifts his eyebrows, “Right…” He says slowly, “You know, there is a solution."

Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes, “You say that like it’s easy,”

“No.” he answers simply, “But everything gets easier afterwards. Imagine;” He holds out his arms, palms open, “Not having to hide. To lie. Just living without all the weight on your shoulders.”

“And without my son.”

“You don’t know that,”

“So?” Arthur argued, voice rising, “Do you really want my son to be from a broken home?”

Francis sighs deeply, fingertips ghosting over his lips. Arthur awaits his response with his eyebrows furrowed and a scowl painted across his face.   
“Arthur...why do you insist on torturing yourself?”

That night, Arthur and his family eat popcorn on the couch in their pajamas while some cartoon Alfred likes flashes across the t.v. Alice lays her head on Arthur’s shoulder and her palm on the inside of his thigh. 

Alfred sings along to the opening as a new episode begins. The bowl of popcorn empties until it’s nothing but kernels. Alice is so close, body sealed against Arthur’s, skin stuck together. He wants to push her away and breathe, but he can’t. 

Arthur is reading in bed, next to Alice who’s typing away at her computer. Her glasses have fallen down the bridge of her nose and her hair tied back taut. The white straps of her tank top contrast against the concave of her collarbones. 

She shuts the lid and turns over on her side. Arthur’s eyes follow her. She reaches out and runs her hand over his face, palm fitting against his cheek. He lays his thumb in the center of his page so he won’t lose his place and looks down at her.

He takes a deep shuddering sigh, and sets his book down, then settles into the curve of Alice’s chest. Her arms wrap around him and her breath fans over his neck, face situated in the curve of his shoulders. Arthur lays there, letting himself be held. He won’t cry, but that same guilt and longing from the other night finds itself in each row of his ribcage, submerging his heart. Alice’s grip tightens when Arthur’s makes a fist around her linked hands.

He can pretend that she’s lying so close and holding him so tight as a friend would, but then he looks down and sees the rings. He can’t even hide in his mind because that’s where Afonso lives. It’s where Francis lives.

In this moment, he wants nothing more than to tell her and for her to hold him just as tight. But, he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

After Alfred’s last baseball game, they all go for pizza. Alfred gets sauce smeared all over his cheeks while Mathieu eats neatly. Francis laughs at this and leans over to wipe Alfred’s face with a napkin. Alfred blushed and pushes up his glasses.

Francis and Alice chat on the couch once they arrive home, while the kids play upstairs. Arthur listens to them silently, arms folded in his lap, occasionally putting in his two sense. 

Around 9 the kids start getting sleepy and Arthur drives Francis home to get Mathieu his things. He’s sitting there, in the passenger seat, with his arm hanging out the open window. The breeze runs its fingers through his hair, moonlight catching on little pieces of blonde. Shadows settle in the pits of his face. In his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose and his lips. Arthur can barely keep his eyes on the road.

They pull up, and Arthur takes a cigarette, offering one to Francis. He cocks an eyebrow and he takes it, bringing it to his lips.

“Taking a page from your book,” Arthur offers, lighting his up. The fire paints light across the roof of his car and the sharpness of his face.

Francis reaches over for Arthur to light his cigarette, not bothering to prod any further. They sit and smoke in silence. Arthur watches the stars through the windshield, occasionally taking a drawl. Every second or two, his eyes will find Francis again. 

“I’ll go get his things.” Francis says, finally. He opens the car door and disappears into the darkness. 

When he reappears he’s got Mathieu’s duffle bag in hand. He throws it through the open window.

“Will you drop him off tomorrow morning or should I come get him?”

“I’ll bring him over.”

It’s too dark to see Francis smile, but Arthur knows he is.

“Good.” He says, “I’ll make breakfast.”

Arthur goes to protest, but Francis is already heading inside. The darkness clings to him, the folds of his clothes and the waves of his hair. Moonlight forces itself everywhere else, illuminating him.

Arthur knocks on Alfred’s door with Mathieu’s bag slung over his shoulder. Alfred shouts at him to come in.   
The boys are sprawled out on their stomachs, lying on Alfred’s bed. Mathieu is flipping through the pages of a book.

“What’s that say?” Alfred points.

“Il est allé à l'intérieur pour aller chercher le dîner,” Mathieu reads clearly, “He went inside to fetch dinner.”

Alfred’s mouth forms an o, “Okay, read more!”

Arthur smiles to himself, setting the bag down by the door. Mathieu’s quiet voice filters throughout the room, accent fading while he reads from his native tongue. His words flow easily, naturally. He’s a beautiful reader, actually.

“Daddy, daddy, Mattie’s teachin’ me French!” Alfred announces, “Listen to this! J'mapelle Alfred, je suis de huit!” His pronunciation is awful, he even sees Mathieu wince.

“Very nice!” Arthur grins anyways, “You’re a wonderful reader, Matt.”   
Mathieu smiles thinly, pink dusting his round cheeks, “Thank you, Monsieur Kirkland.”

 

That night, after he clicks off his lamp and tries to sleep, he draws himself closer to Alice. She’s already out, but instantly presses into him, letting out a small noise. Arthur breaths in the scent of her hair and settles his hand on her waist.

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He whispers, “You don’t deserve this. Alfred doesn’t deserve this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I don’t love you.”

Part of Arthur wishes she would’ve woken up. Then, she’d know and it’d be over. But, she’s always been a heavy sleeper.

 

Arthur loads Alfred and Mathieu into the back of his car the next morning. The sun hangs low in the sky, cool air creeping across skin. Alfred’s nose is red, and Mathieu keeps blowing into his hands. Francis is waiting for them in his kitchen when they arrive. 

He runs a hand over the crown of Mathieu’s head, fingers tracing around his ear. Then, with his free hand does the same to Alfred.

“Go, sit,” He instructs. The two of them scramble to the stools standing by the island. 

“You had a good time?” He turns back to whatever he’s cooking, hair falling across his broad shoulders. 

“Yeah, yeah!” Alfred answers excitedly, before rambling on about everything they did. Francis will nod every sentence or two, sometimes even adding his own remark. Everything fits itself together, like it always does when it’s the four of them. That sense of family crawls on all fours into the pit of Arthur’s stomach because, God, it’s so perfect. When it’s like this he’s not thinking about Alice, or his secret or how badly he feels, because he’s thinking about how good it is. To truly feel like a family.

“Is Alice working today, then?” Francis asks. The boys are off playing upstairs, while Francis sits on the couch with a notebook between his thighs and a pencil between his fingers. His hair falls around his face, eyes tracing each movement of his pencil. Every so often, they’ll flick up and linger on Arthur’s face. Arthur tries to get a glance of whatever he’s drawing, but Francis sits to far away to do so discreetly.

“Do you still write?” 

“There’s not enough time,” Arthur scoffs, “And it’s not like you can just sit down and do it, you have to be in the mood. When I was in school writer’s block absolutely destroyed me. I would cry, even, and Afonso would have to pick me up and carry me away from my computer.”

A smile flickers across Francis’ face, eyes twinkling, “I was diagnosed with insomnia, because I’d go days without sleep, and when I finally stopped painting, my sleep schedule was so altered I couldn’t do it. I had to take medicine.”

“Bloody idiot,” An amused smile found itself on Arthur’s lips. “Once, when Afonso was visiting his family and wasn’t there to stop me, I literally sat in front of my computer for five hours, trying to think of something.”

“I was doing this painting,” Francis begins, hands thrown out, “And I fell asleep against the canvas. Got paint all over myself. Completely ruined.” He sighed dramatically.

“I used to write things on Afonso,” Arthur says, voice suddenly quiet, “We’d be lying in bed naked and I’d write stories on his skin. Then we’d shower and I’d watch it all wash away,”

The world pauses, silences hanging thickly in the air. It swims circles around Arthur’s head, lingering heavily on his tongue. Then, Francis speaks.

“Rosbif, come here,” He says gently. Arthur pulls himself up, and plants himself next to Francis. He’s met with an image of himself, on the sheet of notebook paper. His eyebrows are drawn together and his lips are in a thin line. Shaggy hair hangs over his forehead.

“So, you were drawing me.” 

“You’re quite an interesting subject, with these eyebrows.” Francis reaches over to smooth his thumb over one of them. 

Arthur swats his hand away, “Git,”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve drawn. I’m thanking you.”

“Yeah, well.” Arthur clears his throat, “I’m not some bloody object,”

Laughter spills over Francis’ tongue, eyes crinkling in the corners, “No, you’re not.”

Arthur harrumphs, and crosses his arms, forcing his gaze away. But, underneath his thick sweater and pale skin his heart is fluttering like a bird, wings tickling his ribcage. Francis has drawn him, after years of not drawing anything. 

Arthur was nothing spectacular, really. Average looking at best. Unlike Francis, who was perfect as a god, framed in golden locks with sapphires for eyes.

Arthur’s eyes weren’t green like emeralds, perhaps like grass. His hair wasn’t blonde like gold, maybe sand. There was nothing special about him.

Yet, there he was in Francis’ notebook, nothing but pencil marks on lined paper. 

 

Francis draws Alice. He marks her beauty into a leather bound book. She’s smiling, eyes bright behind her wire-framed glasses. Francis draws Mathieu. He’s on the page behind Alice. Francis uses gentle pencil marks for his soft skin and round face. Francis draws Alfred. His face is pressed cheek-to-cheek to Mathieu’s, a big smile across his face.   
Arthur doesn’t feel so special anymore.

Taking a page from Francis’ book, Arthur opens documents on his computer. The blank white stares up at him, caret blinking mockingly. And so, he writes. His fingers peck his keyboard like it’s covered in seeds and his fingers are a swarm of hungry birds. He writes about himself and Alice and Alfred and Mathieu and maybe even Francis. The words stop registering in his mind and it’s just nonsense but it feels right. It feels human. It feels like he’s him. It feels like he’s 20 again and he’s finally gotten over his writer’s block and Afonso is sitting behind him with his hands around his waist, chin resting over his shoulder.

It feels like he’s 15 again and he’s blushing madly as he writes about the new boy in maths who’s really too cute for his own good. 

It feels like he’s 13 again and he’s writing an essay for school that he knows will get the best grade it class, he knows the teacher will ask him to read it aloud.

But, he’s none of those things. He’s 29 and he’s married to woman he doesn’t love, who he lies to. Who has this motherfucking friend who’s everything Arthur could ever want and who he’s falling in love with.

**Author's Note:**

> this document is titled: I love to sin :3c in my computer  
> So I've been meaning to write this for awhile but just got around to it.  
> I'll try an update as much as possible, but it's school and writer's block is real so don't count on me for consistency. thanks for reading, more trash is soon to come.


End file.
